


Roses

by Blank_Ideas



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blank_Ideas/pseuds/Blank_Ideas
Summary: surprisingly I still can't tag shit.'It annoys Peter, the way he cares for such delicate things that will die within a week regaddless and it annoys Eluas with their confrontational yet all the same absent in feeling atmosphere, but Peter buys them anyway and Elias always accepts them.'
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Roses

Roses are cliche. Whether white, yellow or god forbid red, roses are cliche.

Beyond that there are very few things actually appealing about them, sharp and prickly with a tendency to wilt far too quickly for Elias’s tastes, while vibrant in their colours they have this habit of turning a sickly pale shade though darkening as if the colours were clotting about the edges and wrinkling on themselves as time goes on. Aging so visibly in a way Elias has always found utterly repulsive.

It is true that the colours of roses are supposed to hold meaning, communicating some form of gratitude or loving affection, even innocence in the case of white ones, but with Peter the nature of this long neglected language is insincere and petty. Fittingly silent as he passes them along and Elias, despite fully recognising them as more so a symbol of the sailor’s annoyance rather than affection, fusses and coos over them regardless. To spite him Elias places his loveless bouquets about his home and office with pride, settling the plain arrangements in intricate crystalline vases that catch the sun and draw attention from those few visitors hapless enough to come across them, the few that comment on them can be sure to spot the bitter smudge to Elias’s ever charming smirk.  
It annoys Peter, the way he cares for such delicate things that will die in a week regardless and it annoys Elias with their confrontational yet all the same absent in feeling atmosphere, but Peter buys them anyway and Elias always accepts them.

That’s not to say that sometimes Elias wished he didn’t.  
As much as he took pride in the annoyance it generated for Peter, maintaining the ever in circulation flowers was a chore, a time wasting chore but one nonetheless. The sort he did on sunday mornings, putting off the veritable trove of paperwork that haunted him and his improperly balanced work/home life. Peter, as always, was absent from the bed as he often was through most mornings, he’d be gone now, from the dock upon the Tundra after lingering the hour Elias could have used in his advantage to go and proclaim his affections in person, just to till the lonely feelings already planted and hopefully fertilize them to the point that Peter would be able to taste his yearning, long after the shore of the uk had faded into the horizon, that is why Peter waited. Pampered bastard that he was. No, Elias was not yet ready to work and no sooner ready to reach out to Peter, let alone miss him, so Elias maintained his flowers. The tedious process is slow and time consuming given how the petals always seem to stick to the inner wall of the spindly vase- Elias having to roll up his sleeves to around his elbows and press his small hand into the still smaller maw of the glassware, finger tips grazing the petals that adamantly remained where they were unwanted.

It was an aggravating process and with a sigh of great exasperation he set the vase back and moved his hands to settle about his bony hips, brow furrowing with ingrained frustration that would’ve amused Peter so thoroughly if he were there to witness it. For all Elias’s knowledge and gifts, it always eluded him as to how this happened, surely the opening was too small for such nuisances to slip past and what did manage the task of getting by the stems should be pushed out by the wave of water as it was emptied and replaced. But just as the petals were, Elias was stubborn and had adamantly denied any half piteous half ‘tired of his antics’ offers for replacements. These were antique after all. Or close enough in the modern minimalist expanse of Elias’s tastes. He’d keep the flowers and the vases regardless- mostly out of spite.

Elias settled back against the countertop island behind him, leaning against it’s smooth granite surface as he observed the bundle of dripping dead roses and green stems beside the upside down and glistening vase, he thought quietly to himself. Slowly the droplets fell, forming a slight pool about the silver surface of the draining board, water clear and formless as it molded into the rivulets and gradually made its way down to the basin, all under Elias’s steady gaze.  
His thoughts were a broad range of things, varying from the minute details of the new archival set up to the larger truths such as the sorry state of Gertrude’s office and the adamant stains that refused to leave the surface of her aged desk, much like her in an odd sort of way- stubbornly sticking around for him to deal with later.  
An annoyance really, just like the flower petal obstinately hanging around and just like Peter, intransigent as he lingers on that dock, waiting for Elias to come despite both of them knowing full well he wouldn’t. There’s a pang of emotion in his chest, reverberating achingly slow about his fragile ribs, at which Elias bites his lower lip and pushes himself forward, away from his tired slouch and towards the awaiting task.

The flowers were easily done away with, the bin opening in a small but rudely squeaking movement and devouring the green and faded red roses down into the empty darkness where Elias would no longer have to glower at them. With them disposed of, Elias turned his focus to the vase and with minor struggle and many irritated grunts, his fingertips grazed that same unyielding flower and he finally retracted it from the now cleared surface. A small immature side of him was more than happy to pick at the delicate petal and tear it in half before bitterly letting it down with the rest of the tossed roses.  
There was a small satisfaction with the task over and done with, one quickly overshadowed by the memory of everything else he was supposed to do and catch up with. Paperwork, spreadsheets, phone calls to make, a whole host of things to do and not a single ounce of motivation to do them. Elias’s gaze wandered back to the still gaping bin and the flowers now nestled within, wandering back over his finger’s graze it’s lid, finally closing it with an affirmation in his thoughts.

It was a subtle, treacherous movement, his hand sliding into his trouser pocket and wrapping about the cool hunk of dark metal and glass below, eyes downcast and mouth forming a slight pout as he dialed the familiar number and lifted the bright screen to his face, listening to it ring slowly but gradually.  
There’s a pause, full of baited breath but the dull sound of the receiver shifted to the relieving breath of wind on the other side, Peter said nothing, never one to initiate conversations but Elias didn’t have to see him to know he was listening.  
“I’m not coming Peter, get going.” The disappointment is palpable in the sharp breath that followed and Elias can feel his throat voluntarily constrict about the lump within, an air of finality entering the room. “You can send your complaints via rose again if you like, pink preferably.”

Roses are supposed to be romantic, but Peter and Elias were anything but.


End file.
